


Words of Fire

by taichara



Category: Fire Emblem: Seisen no Keifu | Fire Emblem: Genealogy of the Holy War
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-08-29
Updated: 2014-08-29
Packaged: 2018-02-15 08:08:20
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 457
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2221746
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/taichara/pseuds/taichara
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When the anniversary of Belhalla rolls around the Emperor of Grannvale has quite a bit to say; but the subjects will never hear his words.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Words of Fire

**Author's Note:**

> _prompt: any, any, writing letters with no intention of sending them_

As soon as the farce of his so-called court – 

_Playacting, and for whom? Who amongst the sane chooses to attend a court held captive by Loptyr’s madness?_

– had drawn to a close, the Emperor of Grannvale retreated to the embrace of his own quarters, knew it for a retreat; and, for once did not care. There were more important things to attend to, for the sake of his own trembling sanity.

It was the same thing, every year. The same cold pang that settled like a cloak, heavy with blood, as he took his seat at the battered black-oak desk; the same furtive glance towards the window’s heavy shutters, as if unquiet shades would burst in at any moment. Even the cut-crystal flagon with its dark and lotus-tainted contents, pushed off to his left hand, was part of the ritual now.

The thin vellum sheets rustled in his trembling hands; Arvis smirked, faintly, at the tiny show of his own weakness – 

_Here, I suppose, I may crack that mask for a moment_

– set down the delicate bundle, drew glasspen and inkwell and drying sands from the desk’s small cabinet, and only then closed his eyes for a heartbeat to compose his rattling, spiraling thoughts into some sort of order.

Then he took up the pen – cool to his false-fevered touch – and began.

It was an impressive list of missives, all told. At the first, it had consisted of Sigurd and those who accompanied him only; but as the years dragged on and scattered accounts reached him, Arvis had felt compelled to add to the names of those he wrote for. Ethlyn and Quan, bleached beneath the pitiless desert sun; Raquesis, wanderer, whose fate none knew in the end; and all the others. And always, always, he would begin with the man whose life and more he took with his own hands.

But the last, the long and lingering last, with penstrokes faltering and ink blurred by stray droplets, was ever and always reserved for his brother.

_If only I could have succeeded in tearing you away, before …_

He set down the pen for the final time, sprinkled sand to dry the ink; the lamplight shivered and guttered in the same breath, a breath that Arvis drew deeply and shakily, one hand raking through the mass of his hair as he eyed the so-innocent-seeming stack of vellum on the desk. 

With one motion he snatched up the sheets, pushed out of his chair, stalked – or was it lunged? – across the cold stones of the chamber before he collected himself once again. 

Holding the sheaf before him, he stared back across the study at the struggling lamplight.

His hands ignited in flame; ashes like tears fell to the floor …


End file.
